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The annual Gatsby-esque celebration of all things film. The showcase of shimmering starlets interlocking protagonists from the next big Hollywood hit. Social feeds pouring with snaps at Palais des Festivals’ covered in a stream of red - because if it isn’t on social media, did it even happen? The media circus that is, Cannes Film Festival. There’s an inner urge to wrap the city in the glamourised protective bubble it is renowned for, to which my moral compass smacks me in the face like the swarm of paparazzi bombarding Stallone as he staggers out of a local bar. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity to attend the prestigious event; things like this don’t happen to people like me. A longing to belong grew deep within as it rapidly released its venom through my veins. Flickering self reminders that I didn’t belong here were abruptly interrupted with straight cuts to “fake it till’ you make it” that played in my mind like a broken vinyl until it forced my body to grow beyond the unbearable nerves. Outwardly comfortable but socially insecure, I sit and eat my breakfast with an overwhelming sense of bemused detachment, marvelling at the juxtaposition of high and low, glitz and grime. The streets, saturated with empty shells of sleep-deprived film fanatics with their three-piece suit status, armed with nothing but a cardboard sign in hopes of merci-beaucoup-ing a generous stranger for premiere tickets. I’ve never witnessed high-class begging before. Cannes is the pinnacle of empty facades. A whirlwind of contradictions. The Disneyland for the Bourgeois. A monument to nothing, but status as monumental - Cannes is the place where you’re no one unless you’re someone. As I looked at the girl standing in my reflection - evening gown and all - I realised I am the star of my own movie. It didn’t matter where I was from, or that I wasn’t an A-lister dressed in haute couture or an accessory on DiCaprio’s arm. I am here and I am in charge of my own destiny. The only thing in the way of my potential was my own self-doubt. Cannes Film Festival is a metaphor in itself. It forces you to feel what cinema does best: it fills you, transports you, makes you uncomfortable but the emotional high is always in touching distance and always worth it. Leaving all the toxic cynicism in the rearview mirror, I boarded the plane back to the humble comforts of the U.K. It’s safe to say Cannes is one hell-of-a-drug and I’m prepared to chase the high all over again.